


Weighty Ghost

by jendavis



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-22
Updated: 2010-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:58:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis





	Weighty Ghost

_The itching won't stop, there's something crawling up his side, slowly, so damned slowly. Not making any progress at all, just staying in place as it moves. A bug, maybe, some rodent that he can't smack away. He pulls himself up higher by his restraints, just to get the blood moving in his arms again, but it's a lost cause, they're as numb as his legs are, and if he could see his hands, he'd expect to find them dried, shriveled down to nothing, useless dried husks at the end of his wrists._

Testing the theory, Ronon tries to force his hands back thorough the restraints, prepared for the shower of ash that had once been his flesh to come showering down over his face, but none comes. There's a sound, though. He swears he's hearing it, but it's coming from everywhere all at once, and it's already fading, but it almost sounds like his own voice, shouting angrily at him.

Maybe it's one of the wraith from earlier, coming back to poke and prod and hiss over him. His muscles are already twitching in anticipation, futile as it is. He wasn't able to dodge their attentions, much less attack, chained up like this, and it's been so dark, down here, for so long, that he doesn't honestly know if he's alone anymore. He knocks his head against the wall behind him, just to feel some sensation at all, but he can barely hear it, thanks to whatever they've done to his ears. Still, though, he needs to be ready.

\---

 _Finally_ John's radio goes off, and it's McKay checking in. "You'll have visual on us in another minute or so,"' he says. "You guys all right?"

"We are fine," Teyla assures them, cutting John off with a warning glare before he can complain; she's probably heard enough of his bitching for the next year or two. "Just come and get us."

When the jumper lands, Beckett wants to check them out, trying to waylay John as he pushes his way past the knees of a half dozen Marines, but Lorne knows better, and relinquishes the controls quickly.

"Tell me, dear, long has he been in there?" Beckett's turned his attention to Teyla, but his voice carries.

"Nearly one hundred hours, now, if our sources are correct."

"Do you think they are?"

"I have very little doubt," Teyla answers, and John can feel her eyes boring into the back of his head. He's not going to mention how close they came to being overpowered by the guard's backup if she's not. "Our source worked in the prison for many years, and though he had no direct contact, was able to describe Ronon's appearance with enough detail that there is little doubt that our initial intel was correct."

"So what are we looking at when we get there?" Lorne's stretching his back and adjusting his holster.

"Hard to say," John admits, taking the jumper up higher. Just because they've seen no evidence of surface-to-air capabilities doesn't mean they don't exist. "From what the locals say, there are two sections. The first is for citizens, cells around a central open space, up on the higher levels. Outsiders are thrown in cells on the lower levels, and nobody knows what becomes of them. We checked out what we could and it seems that most of the prison is built into the cave system beneath the city."

"Wonderful," McKay grouses. "So I'm guessing we're not exactly going to have our pick of exit routes."

"Well, it _is_ a prison," John shrugs, because he's only got the haziest idea of how they're all going to get in there, even with the intel they got off the guard. The prison is several miles north of the main settlement, built into the craggy foothills of the mountains. Another five minutes and they'll be able to see it.

\---

 _There's this song that John's humming under his breath- Ronon can't stand it, it drives him nuts, and he can't hear anything else, any more. He can't tell how they're piping it in, his ears are deaf to all other sounds, so he thinks that it might be coming from inside his head, but that wouldn't explain the way the sound bounces off the hard edges of this rock-cut cell, the strange echoes. It's worse, though, when he realizes that the people on this planet would have had to get the music from somewhere. They could've only got it from John. He's down here, somewhere, maybe trussed up like Ronon is. Maybe he's already dead. Or maybe he's the one who handed his music player to the guards, just to drive Ronon insane before he dies._

John, wherever he is- he's been gone a while- has blue skin and dead eyes verging on yellow, and they don't recognize Ronon when they see him. But it feels like he's watching, from somewhere in the dark.

\---

The cave opening was probably huge, once, and though it's mostly been walled off, the wall doesn't extend all the way to the roof. There's more than enough room to maneuver the jumper over the wall and, presumably, land on the floor beyond it.

After that, though, they're pretty much going to have to shoot their way in.

"Okay, I'm keeping us cloaked, so remember where we parked," he says landing as quietly as he can, but through the windshield, he can already see two guards looking around, trying to locate the source of the sound. "I want stunners first, go live only if you have to," John says, more as an apology to Teyla than anything else, but she seems to have gotten over their earlier argument. Beckett, you're with us, McKay, I want you monitoring from here, keep an eye on our exit. They're low tech, but if there are any computer systems you can get to remotely, go ahead and see if there's anything-"

"Yeah, yeah," McKay mutters. "Already on it. Good luck."

\---

 _Ronon's standing in the whipping snow, trying to see through the blizzard, searching for his family, not knowing whether to stagger onwards, feeling his way blindly, or to stay where he is and wait until sight returns. He thinks that he's been standing there for a while, but he's not sure how long; there's no way to tell time, here, no sun, no shadows, and he's unsure if he's lost already, if he's only twenty paces from home, or if he's just a ghost, not even here in the first place. There's nothing here but blinding, unending white and the roaring wind._

\---

They clear the first level with little problem, even with prisoners railing against their cell bars. Lorne's staying back with Portnoy to keep an eye on the eight unconscious guards they've installed inside their own prison cell.

"Teyla," John speaks quietly over the comms, all too aware of the possibility of echoes down here on the cavernous second floor. "Report your position."

"We are just reaching the third level but have not yet left the stairwell, and so far, all is clear. Have you seen anything?"

"Nothing but a few bodies chained to walls." He turns his attention away again. None of them are Ronon. It's unpleasant, but they don't matter. "Hold tight, we're just coming down the stairs."

"Do you think it odd that they have no guards posted down here?"

"Doesn't look like they need them," McKay pipes in, over the comms. "I mean, there's no monitoring at all, and if what the database says is right, they pretty much have the cushy residential suites up on the top levels, the rest is a gigantic network of oubliettes. Don't want to get your hopes up, but…"

"I agree," Lorne chimes in. "Some of the guards are starting to wake up, but after counting their numbers, nobody's making any attempts call in reinforcements. It could be that there simply _aren't_ any."

"Or that they're crafty," John mutters, checking the last blind spot and finding that it's a dead end. The only way down to the next level is the stairwell. "Don't let your guard down, it could just mean that there's something down there that can kill us all without their assistance. Lorne, hang tight. Teyla, we're coming down behind you."

\---

A minute or a century goes by, and Ronon's world becomes a solid dark black nothing instead. It almost feels like waking up, and this is as lucid as Ronon's felt in days, but it could just be another part of the dream, another empty scene, and he doesn't understand why his mind won't let him dream of anybody else, anything at all.

Maybe that's all it takes, though, that rough half-realization, because there are ghosts, here, moving towards him, and he can feel them moving the air. Teyla's bright, glowing, and John's half invisible, propelling himself forward on one leg, but it's just a trick of the light, and suddenly the light moves, finds him, and he can't see anything at all, and it hurts, badly.

\---

The floor is rougher, down here, than the floor above, scarred from the rough excavation of the cells, and not made for comfort. Casting a light around the first cell only confirms his suspicion. The cells are maybe six feet by six feet, with heavy manacles- sometimes with bones stuck rusted into the metal- hanging from the walls.

The doors down here are flimsy wood, mostly moldering away, and the cells that aren't standing open are broken into easily enough. It's sick, John knows, but every time they have to kick one open, he's hoping not to meet the terrified eyes of some stranger. It's been four days, now, and he doesn't want to waste any more time.

Instead, he moves to the next cell, braces himself, and looks inside.

Nothing, again, but up ahead, Teyla's stopping short, the beam of her flashlight swinging toward him even before she speaks.

\---

 _The light's too bright to bear, now, and he turns his head away, squeezing his eyes tight because it's the last defense he has against anything, any more- for some reason, he can't move his limbs, he's on a wraith cruiser, paralyzed in one of their chambers and any moment a sharp hand is going to rip into his chest and-_

There are hands grabbing at his face, forcing his head still, and another hand-warm, maybe, it's there and gone in an instant- against the side of his neck, grabbing-

There's a sharp pain in his right ear, and he swings his head against it, but it only gives his assailant access to his other ear, and again, the sharp stabbing cuts right into his brain-

"Ronon?"

He hasn't dreamed this vividly in years. There are flashes of light, cutting over someone else's shoulder, an arm, but that's all he can take in, they're grabbing at his shoulders again and someone's standing next to him, reaching over him and there's a sudden weight from his shoulders that he dimly recognizes as belonging to his arms.

\---

There's a cut on his forehead, the blood long since dried heavy and thick along the side of his face, and his torso's spotting a collection of bruises, though nothing appears broken.

Ronon's a mess, though, and flinches against the light, but it's that action that jolts John from the disbelief he hadn't even known had frozen him. There's a flash of something he sees through the dreadlocks, red and worrying.

It's not blood, though, just fabric, stuffed into his ears, and maybe once Ronon can _hear_ them, he'll make this a lot easier and stop trying to fight them off.

" _Ronon_ , John repeats, following Beckett's lead and turning to the restraints. The key that they'd taken off the guards worked, and they bring Ronon's arms back down into something resembling a comfortable position.

Not that it seems to help much.

"What's going on," McKay asks, but Teyla answers him, thankfully, and sums it all up.

"We have found Ronon. He is alive."

And that, some days, is about all a person could hope for. John crouches down again, next to Ronon, and shines the flashlight on himself. "It's me, Chewie. We're busting you out, taking you home, okay?"

Ronon's staring at him like he'd just materialized out of thin air.

"Don't…wanna die," Ronon rasps, before squeezing his eyes shut again, and it's enough to have Beckett shoving John out of the way in an instant.

John watches Beckett take his readings, but not as much as he watches Ronon, who at least now is scanning them as he rolls his shoulders in an attempt, no doubt, to return feeling to his arms. He doesn't look overly certain that he's going to try talking again, though, any time soon, and eyes are wild.

"Hey, it's me. We got you. Heading back to Atlantis as soon as you're ready to move, okay?"

"Sheppard, he needs some time to recover."

John wants to argue, and _really_ wants to hear Ronon argue, but he's staring, dazed, at everyone and doesn't seem to be tracking at all.

"Yeah," John says, to Beckett. "Yeah, okay."

\---

Beckett keeps touching him, scanning for injuries, and John's touches are more random, more cautious, but they're there, and even though the lights are no longer shining directly into Ronon's eyes, it hurts to see the worried lines of his face. He doesn't know _why_ , though, and it's hard to concentrate on that, anyway, because his arms and legs are on _fire_ , only he can't see it, and if he was burning alive, he would have thought the sensation would be warmer, but he's _cold_.

He rolls away from the pain, the movement itself distracting enough, and winds up with his forehead pressed against John's leg. The warmth, there, the pressure is grounding enough, and it gives him something to focus on.

 _Lying on a cold floor, John's worried, and Beckett's here. Something's not right_.

He tries to hold on to the thought, tries to connect it to the next one, but can't make the connection. Above him, he can hear them talking, but it's not quite getting through, he doesn't know if Beckett's talking to John, or to him, and either way, he's missed it. The words he can almost find aren't making much sense.

He just wants to go home.

 _What are we doing here?_

There's a shaking at his shoulder and he rolls his head to peer up at John's face, finds him grinning.

"You ready to go home?"

John's learned how to read minds; that's probably relevant to this situation, whatever it is, and it's got to be the reason Beckett's here. There was a mission, something went wrong. They need to get John back and get him under a scanner.

He pushes himself up until he's sitting again, fighting against the way his head swims with the movement, but it passes enough that he can start getting to his feet. There are hands on him, pulling, now, and they're walking, but his feet don't know the terrain, his legs don't know what to do with it. It's frustrating.

\---

The stairs are the worst, John had known they would be, but Lorne takes over for Beckett when they reach the top level, and they make it to the jumper without incident, and Teyla and the last of the Marines join them a moment later, and she immediately moves to assist Beckett with Ronon, who's curled in on himself on the floor in the back, eyes shut and hands over his ears.

Lorne's somehow at the controls when John reaches the front, and shakes his head, hooking his thumb towards the back of the jumper.

"You've been in the field for five days straight, and it's a long flight back to the gate," he insists. "Go find some space to crash out for a bit. Sir."

All John wants to do is curl up next to Ronon on the floor, but not with everyone sitting there, so he sits in the corner in back and contents himself with the fact that his leg is touching Ronon's back, and he can feel him breathing.

\---

John sleeps most of the way back to the gate, wakes up to find that Teyla's using him as a pillow. Up front, McKay and Lorne are arguing, quietly, about some movie or show or something, and back here, it's nearly too dark to see.

But it's nothing like Ronon's cell had been.

\---

John's still in with Carter, running down the mission, the misunderstanding, and the extraction, when he sees Beckett walking Ronon slowly across the gate room and towards the transporter. By the time Carter's satisfied, Beckett's waiting outside the door.

He waits, though, until they're in the empty stretch of hallway heading towards the residential wing, to speak.

"He's still fairly uncoordinated, for _Ronon_ , at least, and I think it's going to be a few days for his cognitive abilities to be back at full form. He does, however, understand what's going on, and doesn't seem to be hallucinating any more."

"Any more?" John snorts. "What did they give to him, anyway?"

"Nothing, Colonel. Nothing, in spades." At John's questioning look, he continues. "It's almost casebook sensory deprivation, gone on for far too long. While medically, I'd prefer we keep him in the infirmary for another day or two, I'm bowing to Doctor Heightmeyer's expertise, here, and agree that more familiar, comfortable surroundings and company would be better for him in the long run, though I will be checking in on him often, as will Doctor Heightmeyer. More often than he'd like, truth be told."

"When can I see him?"

"He's in his room already," Beckett grins. "I'm sure he'd love the company."

\---

Ronon's room had room seemed small, once, confined, but he'd never noticed all the things there are to see, here. The lines that make up the edge of the desk, the ceiling that's too bright to look at, the bantos stick leaning against the wall in the corner. It's a little overwhelming, even after the confusion of the infirmary. It's a little too big, a little too spacious, far too bright, and he can only stand to take in so much at once.

It's a little better when John comes in, dressed in his civilian gear, and takes up some of the space and makes himself at home at the end of the bed, nearly sitting on his foot. "How're you feeling?"

Ronon's leg twitches, the way it's taken to doing, sometimes- Beckett had said it was to be expected, for a while, and not to worry- but John's startled by it, nearly jumps off the bed.

Ronon's reaching out for him before he's even sure he's doing it, and the skin of his wrist is warm, the skin dry, and he can feel the scar that runs down along his thumb.

"I'm good," he promises, even though it's not entirely true. "Better than I was."

John smiles, twists his wrist until he's caught at Ronon's hand, and doesn't let go. "I'm just glad you're back."

"Me too," Ronon smirks, closing his eyes again and tugging at John's hand until he's lying next to him, until he can wrap his arm over John's hip and _keep_ him there. "You got anywhere to be?"

John shrugs, shifting as he makes himself comfortable. "You're looking at it." His hand brushes against Ronon's side idly, down and up again, and he wants to curl up into that contact.

He wants a hell of a lot more than this.

It's the index finger on his right hand that twitches next.

"Oh, you'll be glad to know, Lorne managed to recover your gun from the guards, I think it's locked up with the rest of the gear for now, but you can grab it whenever."

"Good." He hadn't thought about it enough to be worried, but the relief is there, all the same. He grabs onto John a little tighter, the fabric of the worn denim catching on his dry skin. He doesn't know whether to be annoyed by that or not.

"I've got an idea," he says, suddenly, after a while. "Take off your clothes, okay?" The words are out before he realizes what they sound like.

"Ah, Ronon, much as I-"

"I know, me too, but." He doesn't know what he means, not really, just that John's close and could be closer and underneath his clothes is warm, familiar skin, and he's trying to come up with a good reason for it, but doesn't need to. John's already sitting up, yanking off his shirt and jeans, then, snorting, moving on to Ronon's.

It's kind of a relief that he doesn't have to talk about it, and a moment later, there's skin against his own, and John's mouth closes on his shoulder before he shifts to kiss him properly before lying down again. "Doc probably wants me to let you rest…" he trails off, and Ronon nods.

That's not what this is about, anyway. It's about dozing off with the lights on, tracing lazy patterns along John's ribs and smelling the shampoo he uses when he shifts.

"That's cool. I'm still probably hallucinating you anyway."

John tenses against him, a thousand tiny tells against the side of Ronon's body. "What?"

"Kidding."

"Don't."

"Okay."

Ronon's not sure how long he's distracted by the shape of the closed door when John's breathing pattern changes enough to indicate he's going to say something.

"Sorry it took so long for us to get there."

"It's cool, I heard all about it. Sorry I scared the guys with the guns."

"Yeah. Stop doing that shit. And scratch my back, would you? Lower… _yeah_."

Ronon keeps his hand there for a while, afterwards, John's skin and blood and breath moving under his hand, and the way their elbows jostle in the small space between them, trying to get comfortable.

"You gonna leave the lights on?"

"Yeah, that alright?"

John's breath ghosts over his shoulder and his leg is hooked over his own, and his toenails need trimming. It's not the sort of thing he would've noticed, once, and he doesn’t think he's going to stop noticing, any time soon.

\---


End file.
